


but for our breath (for tonight, just tonight)

by isuilde



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Unrepentant Fluff, it’s not hurt/comfort but more like, mental comfort probably?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22817188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: An exhausted Tsuzuru being in Omi’s arms.That’s it, that’s the fic.
Relationships: Fushimi Omi/Minagi Tsuzuru
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	but for our breath (for tonight, just tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a gift for a fellow OmiTsuzu fan on twitter whose works I admire.
> 
> For everyone who is exhausted right now: I hope this makes you guys smile, even a little. Do enjoy.

The inner garden at three in the morning is deathly quiet.

Perhaps because it’s winter. Not even the sounds of rustling leaves nor the chilly night breeze are present tonight. And yet for some reason, Tsuzuru finds his legs bringing him out into the center of the dorm’s inner garden, standing still as he gazes up into the sky, rooted to the ground. Almost as if his entire existence has stopped, along with time and the night itself. Frozen stiff in the midst of February winter.

He’s exhausted.

The latest script for the Autumn Troupe’s newest play was finished a few days ago. He‘d survived that one too, among the hills of class assignments and shifts at his part-time jobs. Perhaps this is what they meant by a burnt-out—he’s put everything of him into that script, done his best in doing the assignments, pushes himself with every part-time shift, it feels like he has nothing left in him. An empty vessel existing, not being. Scraped all the way to the bottom with nothing left to offer.

His hands had stopped in mid-assignment, leaving his report half-finished as he absentmindedly left the room and headed out. Inexplicably, his feet had brought him to the inner garden, and so here he is now: standing still with a script held against his chest, chin tilted up as he stares at the starless sky, breath a white puff in the winter chill in a night that’s deafeningly silent.

He’s so exhausted he doesn’t even have the energy to be startled at the sound of the door opening behind him.

“Tsuzuru?”

A familiar voice. Beloved, even.And yet when Tsuzuru opens his mouth to answer, nothing comes out. Not even a sigh.

“You’ll catch a cold going out without a jacket like this.”

The footsteps come to a pause right behind him. Fushimi Omi generates heat—Tsuzuru once wondered if it’s simply because Omi is huge, or if it’s because Omi is inherently a warm person, but honestly, Tsuzuru can already feel warmth radiating from where Omi stands behind his back. There’s the sounds of rustling for a second, before a blanket drapes heavily over his shoulders, falling down to cover him in warmth. 

Omi’s hands rest on his shoulders, a silent, grounding presence, keeping the blankets secure. His name sounds out in a soft breath: “Tsuzuru.”

Softer than the whisper of the blanket against his arm, kinder than the warmth it brings. Tsuzuru takes a breath, and when Omi’s hands pull, he lets go and follows them into the circle of Omi’s arms. The bulk of Omi’s body easily holds him, traps him within the heat it generates, protects him from the bite of winter chill.

And finally, finally, Tsuzuru sighs.

Any other time, he would have asked questions. _Why are you here,_ perhaps, or _why are you awake?_ Any other time, too, he would have at least protested, even at three in the morning. A half-hearted _someone’s gonna see us_ , and Omi would have chuckled gently and maybe ruffled his hair.

But tonight is fine. Tonight, Tsuzuru doesn’t want to bother. Tonight, it’s fine to just be in Omi’s arms, to breathe in the feeling of being loved, and let everything else stop.

He feels Omi’s chin digging the top of his head gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

There really isn’t anything to talk about. Even if there is, Tsuzuru wonders if there is any word left within him to express this. Almost laughable, really, that the playwright is the one who no longer has the words, when supposedly he has nothing but words.

Omi gets worried, though, and Tsuzuru doesn’t want that, so he says, “It’s fine.”

The way Omi’s arms tighten protectively around him tells how much Omi believes in those two words. “Is it?”

Softly, gently. Tsuzuru savors the way it echoes within his ears, and lets the corners of his lips tug upwards in a small smile before closing a hand over Omi’s own. Another sigh, easier to come in the warmth he’s enclosed in.

“M’so tired....”

It sounds like a whine. A soft laugh sounds from the top of his head—beloved, treasured. Tsuzuru loves it.

“I see.” A pause, and a kiss pressed into his hair. “You’ve worked hard. Well done, Tsuzuru.”

The three syllables of his name tinkle when Omi says it—as careful as crystal glasses, beloved and treasured. Tsuzuru wonders how they taste to Omi, and as he closes his eyes, he hopes that they taste as sweet as they sound.

Tonight is fine. Tonight he’ll drown himself in this warmth and listens to the sounds of his breath mingling with Omi’s in this otherwise silent night, knowing that he’s loved.

Tomorrow, he’ll straighten up and work hard. Again.

** ——-o0o——- **

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a Fushimi Omi in your life raise your hand.
> 
> If you want a Minagi Tsuzuru in your life raise your other hand.
> 
> /highfives you/ there we go


End file.
